One Step
by Masako Moonshade
Summary: Gold finally has Belle back, but for all his plans, he never thought about what happens next. All he can do is move forward one step at a time.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I tend to post these a few days after I release them elsewhere. If you want the fics fresh off the press, take a look at my tumblr (jwtroemner).

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, etc, etc, etc.

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><p>One step.<p>

Then another.

He doesn't think about the living corpse in his arms. He doesn't think about the pain that shoots through his legs with every step.

He can't.

_(Just take one more step. Then another. One more.)_

The hospital's staff run at him, try to take her away, but the barrier keeps them away. _(Barely.)_ Their fingers still stretch through, feathering across her skin before they're pushed back again.

He feels every attack like a cannonball to the chest. He doesn't think about it.

_(One more step. One more. Just one more.)_

They cross the threshold into the open air. Sunlight lights up her face for the first time in a thousand years, but she doesn't wake.

He fears she never will.

_(One more step. Another. Another.)_

His leg threatens to collapse beneath him. The bone wants to shatter, his arms burn.

There was a time when he caught her, held her, like she was a feather in his arms. He had magic then to keep him strong.

Not anymore.

Everything he's collected, everything he's hoarded with a dragon's jealousy for nearly thirty years, it's gone now, spent in fetching her. He's emptier than he's ever been.

But he doesn't think about that, either.

He should have done it differently. More subtly. The way he usually does. But this time he couldn't wait, couldn't stop himself, couldn't hold back, and now he clutches her closer in his arms and he doesn't know what to do.

From the corner of his eye he sees the sheriff's car idling beside him, tapping the brakes every few seconds to keep with his agonizing pace. He ignores it.

Emma sits behind the wheel. Beside her, Henry rolls down the window so she can call out to him.

"Hey there."

He doesn't reply. His mind is elsewhere occupied.

_(One more step. Another. Another.)_

"Need a lift?"

He doesn't answer for another step. Another. Another. And then his leg gives out, the ruined knee crumpling. It's all he can do to sink to the sidewalk (_slowly_), keeping Belle tucked safely against his chest. The car comes to a halt. The engine dies.

Emma steps out, stands over him. Vaguely he can see her signaling passersby away, nothing to see here, so on.

Sweat drains from his every pore. His breath comes in ragged gasps. He doesn't care.

And then she crouches low, her arms reaching to wrap around Belle, and he snarls. It's a savage, wordless sound, but he doesn't have any words left in him anymore. Emma raises her eyebrows, completely unfazed.

"I still owe you that favor, remember?"

He meets her eyes, stares into them, through them, trying to read her soul. It's harder with these eyes, in this world, and maybe it's wishful thinking, but she seems honest. His head bends (_defeated_) and he relinquishes Belle into Emma's grip. The boy opens the door for her (_where did he come from?_) and she lays his beloved across the back seat. Gold drags himself in beside her, his lap a pillow under her head.

The door isn't yet closed. Henry leans through it, takes off his jacket, drapes it over Belle. He gives Gold a soft smile (_Baelfire's smile_) before he joins his mother in the front seat.

"Here to arrest me?" His throat is dry. His voice barely makes a sound in his own ears, but Emma looks at him through the rear-view mirror .

"Would it make a difference if I did?" she asks.

He doesn't reply.

The car carries him to the tea-rose panels of his own house. She leaves the car like a chauffeur, opens the door and whisks Belle out of his reach. He almost cries out at the theft, wrenches open the door, tries to step out—his leg gives out before he's made it entirely out of the car.

There's the boy again, Baelfire's smile on his lips, his hand extended in mercy.

"Here. Lemme help."

Gold doesn't have it in him to refuse. He lets himself be pulled to his feet, grips the boy's shoulders when they're offered to him, leans on him for support as he hobbles the endless miles between his car and the front door (_which sadist put steps there?_). Emma is already inside, laying Belle across a couch that he never managed to sell.

He wants to rebel (_She needs a proper bed. She needs rest. She needs everything he never gave her._) but a glance from the curse-breaker tells him everything. He can't make it up the flight of stairs. Not like this. To bring her comfort would be to send her away.

He won't do that.

Henry leads him to a wingback chair, a few feet away. He collapses into it, his body wracked with hellfire. Lifting his arm is agony, but he reaches out, takes her hand in his own and holds on for all he's worth.

Even when consciousness leaves him he doesn't let go.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: **helikesittheymikey** asked: "_SO...what pairing is this? I'm hoping since Emma and Gold are listed as the main characters that it'll be a Gemma...umm...how does Henry have Baelfire's smile? is Gold his dad too? is Belle gonna survive? or even be sane?_"

The pairing here is Gold/Belle, because that's the canon pairing and for the most part I try to keep with the canon as much as possible. That said, the focus of this story isn't romance, it's the fallout. Emma's the biggest agent here, being the Curse-Breaker and the sheriff and all, which is why she shares top billing with Gold. Regarding Baelfire being associated with Henry, they're not related physically. Gold/Rumpelstiltskin is a man who has traditionally traded in children. They are a commodity to him, rather than being creatures worthy of love or affection (except to be exploited). The fact that he's seeing Baelfire echoed in Henry is a throwback to the idea of seeing him as a merciful, kind, and brave human being (as Baelfire was), rather than a piece of merchandise.

I hope that clears a few things up. The rest should be pretty clear in the chapter itself.

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><p>He didn't think it was possible to hurt all over and be completely numb at the same time.<p>

Apparently it is.

He blames the poison, the zombifying medication that he's been drawing out of her body and into its own with every touch (_all magic comes with a price_). He doesn't have enough magic left in him to clear his head, and so he sits back and lets himself feel.

A sweet, warm scent fills the air. Leaves him hungry, despite the nausea.

"How are you feeling?" says a woman's voice. Not Belle. Not Emma. Not Regina.

He drags his eyes open (since when were his eyelids made of lead?) and stares at his living room through a heavy fog. A woman bends over Belle—hair black as night, lips red as blood, skin white as snow.

Snow White. Mary Margaret. Miss Blanchard.

That one.

There's more shapes in the distance. More voices. He can see the cricket—no, his name is Hopper now, Archibald Hopper—stepping out of the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hands, talking to Emma. The boy is curled up on the other chair, his book in his lap.

What, did they relocate Operation Cobra's headquarters to his house? He would throw them all out, except that it hurts to move and for all his annoyance he can't bring himself to care. His eyes refocus on Belle—she's sitting up, her hair disheveled, one hand still clutched tightly in his. She speaks, but he's too lost in the music of her voice to hear the words properly.

"Would you like a cookie?" Mary-Snow-Margaret asks, drawing a big brown disc off a tray and pressing it into Belle's hands. "They're chocolate chip."

Belle accepts the token carefully, nibbling at it as though she's afraid it's poison—and then she lets out a sound between a laugh and a squeal.

"It's delicious!"

Okay. So maybe he'll forgive the invasion. Just this once.

The sound of a ring tone draws his attention from Belle's cookie-eating. The sound ends as abruptly as it began, and Emma backs into the fog of the kitchen.

"Yeah?" she says into the phone. "I told you, I'm handling it... No, actually, police custody is wherever the hell I say it is. Look it up if you don't believe me." She stops, and through the fog he sees her eyes stray to her son. "Henry's at school, last time I checked. What, do you think I've been kidnapping him or something?" The boy turns and gives her a thumbs-up.

Children.

A knock sounds at the door. He can't turn to see who it is, but Emma crosses in front of him to answer it.

"I've got the files you asked for." Another voice. (How many people are in his house?) He recognizes this one, though younger—the puppet-maker, the child of puppets. Gepetto. Marco.

"Thanks. Did you get a chance to look at the security tapes?"

"All of them, but you'll find nothing but static there."

"Starting when he arrived?" Gold can tell from the shift in her voice that she's talking about him. If Gepetto replies, Gold doesn't hear it. "See if you can get any more interviews. And take Sydney down to the station. He'll probably come to soon."

The door shuts, followed by the soft sound of leather scraping against wood. She lets out a long, weary sigh. "It's getting late, kid. We need to get you back to school before your mom finds out you're gone."

Miss Blanchard stands, dusts off her skirt. "I can take him. I need to get back to school anyway. Fred said he'd only watch my class for a little bit."

"See?" The boy smiles as only children can, with a grin that paints the edge between hopeful and smug. "All I missed was dodgeball. It's not a big deal."

"But next time you wait until you're done with school," Emma says as her mother ushers him out the front door.

Belle watches everything as intently as Gold listens. He can see the confusion in her eyes, but she's always been quick to adapt. He can see the wheels working even now, though his mind is too much of a fog for him to guess at her thoughts.

"Hey." Emma's voice again, soft before she crosses the room to crouch beside the sofa. She crosses her arms over the armrest. "Are you feeling any better?"

"You keep asking that," Belle says.

Emma shrugs. "You did just come out of a hospital."

"I did." Her voice is calm and nonchalant, but Gold recognizes that tone. She doesn't remember leaving, but she isn't about to ask. He hears the sounds of rustling papers. It seems the good doctor has decided to take a look at her file.

Emma tilts her head to the stairs. "Do you want to go ahead and get cleaned up? I don't think Mr. Gold will mind you using his shower." Such assumptions. It's true, of course, but still. Emma raises a canvas bag. "Mary Margaret brought over some clean clothes for you, if you want to change." She stands, and after an expectant look Belle does the same. "Do you want help finding the bathroom?"

For a moment Belle doesn't answer. She stares down at Gold, at his hand as it's wrapped around hers. He pretends to sleep and watches her through his lashes as gently, reluctantly, she liberates herself from his fingers and lays his hand on his lap. His joints ache from being locked in the same position too long, but he's more concerned with the sudden cold where her hand used to be.

"Yes, I'd like that. Thank you." Like a princess. No matter where or when she is, she is nothing short of a princess.

She disappears, moving with a dancer's grace despite her uncertainty. A slow, sluggish thought squirms to the surface of his mind (_when did he last clean the bathroom?_) and he's too tired to push it aside.

Dr. Hopper creeps into the room, a file clutched in one hand, staring at Gold like he expects him to snap his neck. Nonsense, of course. Brute force is hardly Gold's style. Most of the time, anyway. Besides, Belle is safe and he's entirely too tired to take out his frustrations on this little cricket of a man. Hopper glances back up when Emma comes down the stairs.

"Ah. Emma." Twitchy little man. "Are you sure it's all right to leave her alone?"

"She seems fine," she says.

"That's not what her file says." He shuffles nervously through the papers. "Schizophrenia, delusions, psychosis, depression—" His eyes flick back at the master of the house. Gold doesn't even need to glare for the cricket to feel it.

"You've been watching her since she woke up," Emma says with the sort of tone that should go with a shrug. "Any of that sound like it fits?"

"The effects of mental disorders aren't always visible." He's sweating.

"There should be enough pills in her to stock a pharmacy. Don't try to tell me they don't have side effects."

"There is the possibility that she hasn't been taking them—"

"Inside an institution? Do you really think she'd get away with that?" Even through the fog, Gold can tell she's prodding.

"What do you want me to say?" the cricket asks.

"I want you to tell me if it's safe for her to be here. Not the girl in the file, the one you've been watching."

She challenges him as only the curse-breaker can (_what does your conscience tell you?)_ and he submits.

"I... she looks fine. Healthy, all things considered. But I want to keep an eye on her. I'll—" Another glance at Gold. "Keep coming by. Check on her."

Emma gives a single nod, the faint shadow of a smile. "Thanks, Archie."

The cricket mumbles and excuses himself. He's in a predator's den, even if he doesn't fully know it. Smart little insect. Emma should take notes.

She's staring at Gold now, her usual tough-girl glare glued to her face.

"You get a bit of an education in the system," she says evenly. "The sorts of things in here, they do things to you. And the people on them don't look anything like her." She picks up Belle's file and taps it for effect. "Most of them look a lot more like you right now." She seats herself in Henry's chair. "You can quit pretending. I know you can hear me."

With a herculean effort, Gold lifts his lids. (_Tell me, Sheriff, what do you see?_) She reads the challenge in his eyes and returns with a cold smirk.

"Two of the hospital's staff are missing," she says. "An orderly and a janitor. People are wondering if you did something to them. They're also wondering if you're the one who let a pair of snails into the basement."

"And why would I do that?" The medications slur his words. His mouth feels like it's stuffed with wool.

"There's also the door to her cell. Solid steel, apparently. They want to know how it turned into a pile of rust and iron shavings."

Speaking takes too much out of him, so Gold doesn't bother with a reply.

"And then there's what happened to Dr. Whale."

Whale. Whale. Oh. That one. "What about him?"

"He tackled you on the way out, remember?" She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. "Right when I got there. A nice flying tackle, too—he must have played football in college or something." Her face hardens. "The thing is, he didn't even touch you. It's like he hit a glass wall. Broke his nose, but the blood didn't even splash you."

They match stares while the fog creeps in on every side. He volunteers nothing. Makes her say it first.

"How much of Henry's theory is true?"

Despite the numbness, a feline smile creeps onto his face. "So this is about Henry, is it? Tell me, who does he think I am?"

She gives him a long, careful look. When she smiles, it's almost as feline as his own. "He's got her pegged as your true love." Either he's spent too much time around Regina or else she has. Maybe it's the drugs, but he can't tell just how much of that is a feint and how much is a threat.

Either way, he can't risk it. He sits up (_like lifting a mountain_), his eyes open and smoldering, his face a careful mask of barely restrained malice. The effort leaves him exhausted, but he hides the shaking, speaks coldly and clearly and hopes she can hear him through the fog.

"Then you know what I'll do if you touch her."

She matches his gaze, but he can see a mask of her own freezing her features in place. "Why do you think you're not in a jail cell right now?"

He tries to speak, but his tongue is as flexible as his little toe. His vision is tunneling. The effort of staying upright and coherent is bleeding him dry.

Maybe that's why he doesn't see Belle until she's at the foot of the stairs. Dark, wet hair falls in ringlets around her face, her expression scrunched into concern.

"Rum?" Her voice is like music. "Are you—"

And just like that, his focus slips, falls, shatters in the canyon of his mind. He couldn't find his own body anymore if he wanted to, and so he crumples back against the chair. Not unconscious, but lost. All he can comprehend anymore is the melody of her voice.


	3. Chapter 3

For an eternity Gold drifts between consciousness and a drugged stupor. When he finally opens his eyes, his first thought is that the poisons have finally run their course.

His second thought is _denim_.

That's all he can see—denim pressed close to his face, and beyond it the expanse of his living room. The denim rises and dips into the form of a pair of thighs, disappearing over the edge of what he assumes is his couch when they reach the knees.

Still sluggish, though he's sure he's sober, it takes him a moment to put it all together: he is in his living room, on his couch, with his head in somebody's lap.

This is not how he recalled falling asleep.

A thick comforter has been draped over him; he doesn't notice it until he tries to sit up and it slides down the shoulders of his rumpled suit (_How long has he been wearing these clothes?_). As he shifts his weight, the owner of the lap murmurs softly. Even though he can't make out words, the voice sends chills down his spine.

Belle.

He turns his head and looks at her—really looks at her. She's had a recent bath (_he can smell soap like lilacs and shampoo like spring apples_) and her hair hangs in loose curls around her face. He recognizes the clothes she wears (_he's seen them on Emma before_) but they're baggy and loose. Too big for someone as fragile and tiny as her, not her style at all (_he'll make sure she's dressed like a queen from now on_). Her chin tips against her chest, her face serene in sleep.

He lifts himself quietly, careful not to disturb her. She shouldn't be sleeping on a couch like this (_nor should he, but that's beside the point_) but he doesn't dare move her to a more comfortable position. A part of him still fears what she'll say when she sees him. What she'll do.

A part of him still fears what _he'll_ do.

The old floorboards announce another presence behind him. Emma, looking tough and grim as usual, even in tousled hair and an old set of sweats.

"You're up early," she says, just loud enough for the sound to carry to his ears. A quick glance tells him that Belle hasn't woken.

"Not here." He mouths it, barely voicing the command. Emma gives a weary shrug and nods for him to join her in the kitchen, as though it's her house. Gold stifles his agitation and sets his face into a hard mask. He doesn't fully grasp the situation yet. Best not to make any moves until he understands the terms of this deal.

Emma leans against the counter, her arms crossed, her face set. Gold busies himself preparing tea (_his mouth is parched and his throat is dry and seeing Belle didn't help either_). Only when the water waits to boil does he turn to face her.

"So."

"So," she returns. She's still got a lot to learn if she's going to play this game.

"Would you care to tell me how long it's been?"

"Since you attacked the hospital?" Emma tilts her chin at him. "Two days, in a few hours."

He glances at the microwave, which glints at him with an angry _4:31_. Outside the world is a sleepy gray.

"Regina wants you behind bars," she continues. "She's threatening to call in the FBI."

"She won't. And even if she does, they won't come." Gold stands as straight as his aching leg will allow, leaning on the counter for support. Vaguely he wonders what became of his cane.

"You sure about that?" Her glance strays to his hands, checking to make sure he won't reach for a weapon. There's nothing like a kitchen for a desperate soul, with all its knives and flames. But even if he wanted to play that game, he's still disoriented and tired, and Emma's clearly waiting for him to make such a move. No, he'll stay still. "I'm not the only stranger who's come to town. Apparently whatever's keeping people out is running out of juice."

"Call it what it is, dearie."

"So it is a curse?" She looks quite skeptical for a believer.

"I assume I'm not under arrest?" he asks. The water has boiled, and he pours himself a steaming cup. Tendrils of color weep out of the bag of Earl Gray inside.

"Oh, you're definitely under arrest," she says. "You're in police custody until I say otherwise."

He pauses. Considers. Takes a sip of his tea and lets it scald his mouth. "And Belle?"

She meets his pause with a hesitation of her own. "Archie's talking to her. Making sure she's adjusting."

Gold doesn't turn his head—only his eyes, a slow, steady flick of displeasure.

"I've already told her to keep quiet on the fairy tale stuff," Emma continues.

So Belle remembers. Gold isn't sure whether to be happy or horrified.

"Archie's trying to track down the doctor who originally diagnosed her." Emma's voice fills the silence. "Nobody at the hospital's heard of him."

"Of course not." Because it wasn't a doctor who had her committed. Regina wouldn't leave such matters to any soul with a conscience. "Madam Mayor has been asking about me, has she?" A cold, serpentine smile crosses his face. "Perhaps she and I can have a chat."

"She hasn't come by in person," Emma says flatly. Clearly she knows where his mind is going.

"No. Of course not." Likely reinforcing her fortifications. He'll be surprised if she hasn't added a machine gun turret to the roof of her house. She knows what's coming.

And he'll be thrilled to exceed her expectations.

He leans back against the counter, mirroring Emma's pose except for the broad, impish smile.

"A word to the wise, Sheriff Swan. You'll want to be the one to pick Henry up from school today." His smile shows teeth. "Before you make it known that I've woken up, perhaps."

Emma's eyes narrow and her hackles rise, but apart from that her mask stays in place. "And why's that?"

"Because, dearie. You're about to have a war on your hands."

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><p>AN: On my Tumblr I ended this chapter with a question: should I continue from this point forward, or should I leave it off here and leave the rest to your imagination? The result was an almost unanimous "Finish it", not unlike the command you hear at the end of a Mortal Combat match. The second half of the question, though, I leave to you:<p>

Do you have any ideas for how this war will go? If I use anything you submit, I'll definitely credit you. But I'm interested to see which threads you think need to be tied to make this story a cohesive whole.


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